


Heavy in Your Arms

by Thatlassiegotglassed



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: Early SAMCRO, F/M, Prequel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-13
Updated: 2014-12-19
Packaged: 2018-03-01 06:21:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2762876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Thatlassiegotglassed/pseuds/Thatlassiegotglassed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Back from the service and hell bent on drinking his way through Southern California, Tig Trager is a rambler. He's alone, he's lost, and he likes it that way. He stumbles into Charming, a quiet town with a large presence in the form of the motorcycle club, The Sons of Anarchy. Here he finds more than he bargained for, and something else he never thought he would deserve.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

 

_"Yeah, I dumped an FXR on the I-5 and the poor bitch slid right in front of oncoming traffic...Found out she was pregnant. Really loved that one..."_

* * *

 

 

**June 21st, 1993**

 

The roar of the big trucks and the swishing of the smaller cars blazing down the freeway filled his ears and would have been calming, but they were out of place. He had been asleep, safe in his own bed, the cars from the road had never been this loud. He shifted slightly and instead of cool sheets under his hand, he felt the grit of the blacktop and the wet clumps of side-road sand, rough against his skin.

The weight on his head let him know he was still wearing his helmet. With slow movements, he reached up and unclipped it, shoving it off his head and letting it bounce against the road.

Everything hurt. He coughed, the movement pressing his cheek back to the cool blacktop.

He had had a dream, a wonderful dream, that he had been riding. His hands had gripped the handles as the sun played hide and seek with the oncoming rain clouds. The crisp smell of the spring air had tickled his nose and filled his lungs as trees and the tall grasses of the fields outside the city whipped passed him. Kate was a comforting weight at his back, and every time she squeezed her arms around his middle it brought a smile to his face.

Kate.

His eyes opened for the first time. It hadn't been a dream. He had been riding and it started to rain, and the semi cut him off and--

“Kate?” he said, his voice feeling like razor blades down his throat.

When she didn't answer, he knew something was wrong. A silence had fallen around him, all he could hear was the ringing in his ears, as he saw her body laying feet from him. Her helmet had fallen off, dark brown hair spilled to the side, blood flecked her perfectly pale temples and down her cheeks.

He knew. With a sinking feeling in his heart, he knew before he even went to her, she was dead.

 

* * *

 

**January 1st, 1991. Somewhere in Southern California**

 

He had met her on a Friday. A pretty calm day, where the world was relaxed in a way that he was not. How could he be? Alexander 'Tig' Trager was, how did they say, 'fresh off the boat', back from his service, he had made it. But, he wasn't concerned with doing it ever again.

The whiskey burned his throat, it was cheap but it was plentiful and he had no plans on stopping. He would take that pathetic government check and he would put it in the pocket of Captain Morgan and his entire crew.

“Hey, doll!” he said, raising his empty glass at a leggy blonde standing by the bar and shaking it slightly.

She gave him a scowl and turned her nose up and quickly walked back over to a different table to sit down with her small group of friends. Apparently, she didn't work here. Shit. He almost felt like an ass, but the feeling quickly went away and he contemplated getting up for a refill.

“Hey, if you're not using it, then get off.” A gruff voice said from behind him.

Tig looked over his sun glasses at a large man. The man was obviously referring to the fact that he was sitting on the pool table. With a neck that seemed to thick for his face, and large, ape-like arms that dangled worthlessly at his sides, Tig knew if it came to blows, this asshole was toast. He hadn't had a good fight in awhile and just one look told him, this could be the itch he needed to scratch.

He put a cigarette between his lips and took his time lighting it. With a lazy hand, he pushed his glasses into his short, black hair. “But I am using it, man.”

“Listen, pretty boy--”

“Pretty boy?” Tig said. His blue eyes flashed and he smiled. The second was one of his true talents, he could twist his lips, flash his teeth, in a way that made men run for the hills, and made women fall out of their skirts...or so he had been told. “I've been called lots of things, brother. But that?”

“Just move your ass, okay?” the ape-man said as he jerked a thumb back towards the bar.

Tig didn't like being told what to do. It was one of his weaknesses according to his higher-ups in uniform. They had tried to break him, get him to bend and take one in the ass for Uncle Sam, but he refused. He wasn't about to do it for some low life in some shitty, middle-of-no-where bar.

He took a long drag on his cigarette and blew the smoke over his shoulder. His pulse evened out, breathing stayed calm, his subconscious entered that special place right before he spilled someone's blood on the pavement.

“Alright, one,” the guy started to count. “Two.”

“Three,” Tig finished for him and pressed the lit end of his smoke into the man's forehead. He may have looked like an ape, but the bastard squealed like a pig. He brought his elbow down in the middle of the man's back as he doubled over and clutched his face. Tig shoved him to the side as one of his friends came at him at a run.

“Fucker!” he yelled and managed to land a solid right hook to Tig's cheek.

The prick was wearing rings and Tig knew there would be blood without even looking. As he fell back against the pool table, it screeched across the hardwood floor and a few patrons jumped out of the way. His hand landed in a puddle of beer as it knocked a glass over on the felt and his brief moment of mourning was cut short but another blow to his face. That did it.

With a growl, he headbutted the other man. Skull connected with skull and he gripped his shirt, jerking him towards him before he could fall and sunk his teeth into the man's ear. Tig dug his hands into his hair and shoulder, kept his neck at a ninety degree angle and didn't stop till he felt the skin split between his teeth.

“Fucking psycho!” the man stumbled back and the ape man was back on his feet, yelling, arms stretched out and headed for Tig's neck.

Tig met him head on, bringing a firm right hook into his gut and bringing his knee up to collide with his face as the man doubled over in pain. He reached back and grabbed one of the pool balls, twisting around until it connected with the ape-man's temple. The sound was sickening and he dropped like a brick.

Tig raised up and could feel the first drop of blood slide down his cheek. He reached for his beer and pulled up an empty bottle. Asshole had made him lose all of it on the felt of the pool table. He flung it lazily over his shoulder and grit his teeth when it smashed against the wall.

“You owe me a beer,” he said, giving the man on the ground a kick. He didn't move. The fucker was out cold. He looked at the other man, still holding his bleeding ear and looking at Tig like he had rabies. “You gonna pay for it?”

The man just stood there, mouth open like a fish. Tig stooped and dug around in ape-man's pocket until he found his wallet and snatched a twenty-dollar bill from the main compartment. It'd have to do.

He heard the distinct sound of a shotgun being cocked and he looked up just as the bartender and apparent owner of the place was pointing the barrel at his chest.

“Get out, Mister,” he said, firmly. “I'll call the cops.”

“They started it,” Tig said, stuffing the money in his back pocket.

“Well, I'll finish it,” the owner answered, jerking the end of the gun towards the door. “Get out.”

“Gladly,” Tig said, grabbing his leather jacket off the end of the pool table. “This place is a fuckin' dump, anyway, man.”

The man with the ear, or well, lack thereof now, gave him a wide birth as he pushed through the double doors and onto the dark street. He pulled his packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his jacket, only to flip the top open and find it empty.

“God dammit,” he cursed, tossing the box across the lot. He ran a hand through his short, black, hair and took a deep breath. It looked like he'd have to make a stop on the way home.

He threw his leg over his motorcycle and turned on the headlight. A deep glow lit up a small section of the dark parking lot as he kicked it to life and left the pathetic excuse for a pub in the dust.

 

 


	2. Motel California

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Two weeks in a row updating on time! Can I do three?? For those that have wondered, this story updates on Fridays and "Beware the Dog" (my Kozik/Tig back story about Missy) updates on Tuesdays. Trying to stay on top of things and actually finish a fic before school starts again. Enjoy! Thank you to chibsfuckingtelford for being a fabulous beta (this chapter I let her have before I published and its sooooooooooooooo much better.) And as always, comments are appreciated.

Tig made it to some shitty motel on the outskirts of some exit. He wasn't sure where he was going, and he was oddly okay with that. The 'M' on the neon-pink sign was burnt out, leaving the place to be an “OTEL” and it made him chuckle.

Jesus, he was tired.

The gas station down the street had been closed, so he still hadn't had a smoke. His plan was to sleep off the nicotine craving until in the morning, but who was he kidding? That never worked.

The bell jingled as he opened the door to the tiny 'otel' office and fished in his back pocket for his wallet. The place looked pretty generic. Fake potted plants took up the two corners by the window, a couple low-sitting chairs with questionable fabric from the 70s stood against the side window, and the table between them held enough 'Home and Garden' magazines to sate a lonely housewife for a few weeks.

“How ya doin'?” he said, more of a rhetorical greeting than an actual question. “I missed a couple of the signs comin' in. Where am I?”

The clerk behind the counter was unimpressive; his sandy hair was balding, and from the way it was combed, it was clear he hadn't discovered a way to make it look flattering yet. He pushed his wire-glasses higher up on his nose as he looked at Tig with wide, brown eyes, and said nothing.

“What?” Tig asked as the guy continued the stare.

The clerk reached over and fumbled for the phone keeping his eyes on Tig. Tig looked to his right and caught his reflection in the dark window--the blood from the ape-man's rings was still on his face, smeared slightly from taking his helmet on and off, but still a striking line of crimson.

“Oh. That?” he said, looking back to the clerk. “It's nothing. Scuffle. I've been on the road and haven't got a chan--”

“Look, Mister, I'll—I'll call the police,” he said, still trying to find the phone and not take his eyes off of Tig.

“Nah,” Tig shook his head and groaned. “Come on, don't do that.”

“I mean it-”

“I just want a room, man,” he opened his wallet and pulled out his money, to show that he was serious.

“I don't want your money,” The clerk tried.

“Oh really?” Tig looked around sarcastically. “This place is just crawlin' with customers, isn't it? You know you need it.”

The man finally found the phone, closing his hand around the blocky, white receiver and pulling it to his face. He started punching in numbers with his short, fat fingers and Tig put his wallet on the counter in order to reach for the phone.

“Look, don't--” he tried, but the man jerked back and clutched the phone.

“I mean it,” he repeated. “Just get out, or I'll call them-”

The bell jingled again and both men looked up, freezing in their argument to watch a woman walk into the small office. She paused, pulling her purse over her shoulder and crossing her arms under her breasts. Great, Tig thought, some broad coming in to save the day and mace him was the last thing he needed.

“Uh, hi,” she said, awkwardly, looking between the two men. “I called earlier...I'm just here to pick up my key?”

Tig stopped trying to reach for the man and stepped back, motioning for her to go ahead. It was late, and she probably wanted to be in a bed just as much as he did. “Forget it,” he said to the clerk. As he turned and walked out the door he knew that both of them were watching his back.

 

* * *

 

Tig leaned against his Motorcycle, a 1990 FXR flat black. It wasn't as powerful or as comfortable for the long trips like his softtail had been, but it was cheaper and worked until he found a place to settle for a few months.

He had dug through his bag, taking out all the contents and rummaging ruthlessly until he found what he was looking for—a crumpled box of smokes, still containing one small stick of salvation after that fucking desk clerk had made his blood boil. He tried his best to straighten out the part near the end that was crumpled before putting it between his lips and flicking his lighter a little harder than was necessary.

“Hey,” someone said behind him, he ignored it, they probably weren't talking to him anyway. “Hey, guy on the bike.” Okay, scratch that, they were talking to him.

He pulled the smoke from his mouth and held it between his first two fingers at his side as he turned and saw the girl from the motel office. “Whatchya need, sweetheart?” he said.

“You okay?”

What kind of question was that? He looked at her, wondering whether or not she was serious, when it dawned on him that it had been a long time since anyone had asked him that. Physically? Yeah, he was fine. He'd suffered worse scrapes than this. Mentally? Spiritually? Any other metaphysical way you could think of? He was positive she didn't have the time for him to fully answer that question.

“Just fine, doll. Thanks.” He dismissed her with his short sentences. He didn't know what this chick was playing at, but she had no business talking to him.

“That cut looks pretty bad,” she persisted.

He took another puff of his smoke. She was just trying to be nice and there was no need for him to be an asshole, but the last part didn't come very easy—being an asshole was one of his few talents.

“I've had worse,” he said, tilting his head back and blowing smoke into the night sky.

“You know you need stitches?” she said, taking the first few steps towards him.

“You a doctor, or some shit?” he asked, looking over his shoulder.

“Something like that,” she smiled a little and crossed her arms under her breasts. Such a move meant her tits were too big to cross her arms over them comfortably. Even in the dark, her nice rack was not lost on him.

She wasn't terribly short, or tall for that matter, but he still knew once he stood, he would tower over her. At 6'2'', he towered over most people. He glanced down at his cigarette and realized it had burned almost all the way to the filter. He could have scavenged one more hit, but it would have tasted like ash and plastic. Deciding it wasn't worth the aftertaste, he flicked the end across the rocks and looked back at her.

“You offerin' to do it, or you just poking your shit in my business?” he raised an eyebrow and her smile went away.

“You don't have to be rude,” she said. Her mother-like tone almost made him feel ashamed. Almost. “And yeah, I can stitch it if you're hell bent on not going to an ER. Which, judging by your attitude, you aren't.”

He stayed quiet and continued to look at her. Who did this broad think she was? When he didn't speak, she kept going.

“Or you can keep sitting out here in the dark and wait for middle-aged Pat Sajak in there to call the local P.D..” She kept her arms crossed and nodded her head back towards the office where the desk clerk had kicked him out.

Her reference made him chuckle, a genuine sound that surprised him, but at the same time felt kinda nice.

“You sure, doll?” he asked. “You don't even know me. I could be dangerous.”

“And I could be packing,” she patted her purse and let him decide if she was bluffing or not. “Either way, I like my chances.” She turned about halfway from him and pointed to the corner of the first floor of the motel. “If you change your mind,” she said, putting her arms back in their resting place under her tits. “Room 21.”

He watched her walk away and wasn't sure exactly what to think. He leaned against the FXR and touched his face. The blood had dried in a taught track down the side of his face, but the wound itself was still open, still weeping fluids, just slightly slower. It made him wince and jerk his hand back.

The soft sound of a door clicking shut reached his ears as the strange woman from the office disappeared into room 21, just like she had said. He looked at his watch. Traveling another hundred miles up the highway didn't sound appealling to his tired body. And when he looked up at the office, the clerk was still watching his general direction with a hesitant expression.

It seemed like an easy choice as he picked up his backpack and slung it over one arm, making sure his bike was safe and out of the way, before crossing the lot and knocking on the door.

 


End file.
